Special Note to Readers: Thanks to the good offices of the writer ChocolateIsMyDrug, I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the scene changes in my stories are not showing up. So bear with me while I go through the work of the past months and years to clean up and insert the necessary breaks.
The following is based on the 2007 BBC miniseries Cranford, in which Heidi Thomas adapted Elizabeth Gaskell's Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow for the small screen.
St. Valentine's Day in Cranford -- at last. Many thanks to my patient, faithful, and responsive readers.
Chapter 20: The Unresisting Heart
"St. Valentine's Day, Miss Pole! Such a delight! They say the birds choose their mates on this day, and surely many a human heart will find its partner as well."
"Or be broken, Mrs. Forrester, for we know how wicked man can be."
"Oh, Miss Pole, you do entertain such dark thoughts, and on a very pleasant day too." Mrs. Forrester studied the bouquets in Mrs. Rhys's front window with a wistful eye. "Posies, poetry, sweets, secret admirers. It quite takes one's breath away," said she, sighing.
"Do you not think, Mrs. Forrester, that most such gestures are trifling?" said Miss Pole, inspecting a bunch of hothouse rosebuds.
"Oh, surely not, Miss Pole, not if a man reveals his true intent. There's many a humble offering that surely leads to a good deal more. A bouquet, a message, the gentle pressing of a lady's hand, and thereafter such bliss as is known to –"
"Mrs. Forrester, pray compose yourself."
"Ah, Miss Pole, such things must be. Else we'd not be here to discuss them, if you understand my meaning."
"Here we are indeed, Mrs. Forrester -- you a widow of many years, and I a spinster of a lifetime, and not a suitor between us. That is another hard truth, Mrs. Forrester, which you must acknowledge."
"I do not think a lady ought to abandon hope. After all, Miss Pole, we do not know what the morrow holds!" said Mrs. Forrester with just a touch of mischief in her eye.
Miss Pole snorted. She'd not much faith in Providence these days, especially in regard to the supply of gentlemen in Cranford. "Well, I have seen quite enough of the posies for one day. Shall we go to inquire whether the new fabrics have arrived at Johnson's?"
Miss Galindo woke with a fierce headache. She'd had that dream again, or a variation on it. Jem Hearne was bringing Mr. Carter in a coffin to the village church, only this time Jem had to come all the way from Manchester. Miss Galindo approached the churchyard and was turned away by Captain Brown, who said kindly, "My dear, women do not attend funerals in Cranford. Surely you know that, with your vast experience." Whereupon Deborah Jenkyns suddenly appeared and scolded him fiercely. "I am sure, Captain, I never read such nonsense in Dr. Johnson."
Miss Galindo was given neither to superstition nor frequent nightmares, and yet this recurring dream always possessed the power to unsettle her. Deborah Jenkyns had been a rather amusing addition this time, though, and Miss Galindo almost laughed to think of her particular contribution, despite the sobering thought that of all the figures in the dream, Miss Jenkyns herself was the one who had indeed died.
But the dream itself remained an odd and troubling narrative, a sign, Miss Galindo thought, that she'd not abandoned lingering fears for Mr. Carter's safety -- past, present, real or imagined. Since the previous spring she would, on occasion, wake in the morning and no longer be certain whether Mr. Carter had departed this life or no.
Today she admonished herself not to be foolish. Mr. Carter was but on a journey to Manchester, and would be home by tonight.
And if she'd needed proof enough that Mr. Carter remained among them, she'd had it in abundance the previous day, when she had stood very close to him in the firelight, and he was caressing her hand with both of his, and speaking to her in such gentle tones. Oh, he was alive, very much alive, and so was she.
And there was no need to trouble Jem Hearne with any of it.
Oh, how his head ached this morning. It was no good, this being away from home, not when he'd come away so quickly and before he'd accomplished all he'd meant to. But it was always so with a journey – rushed preparations and then departure.
And besides, he must remind himself that he was laying the groundwork for peace of mind when next he was home – and that was not long now. He would explain everything, and perhaps feel contentment at having at last made amends for the way he'd made his fortune.
But truth to tell, that wasn't all that occupied his mind this morning. He was thinking very much of the look he'd see on her face when he'd revealed the rest of his plans, when she finally understood.
That the morning had passed so pleasantly gave Miss Galindo vast contentment. It was a Wednesday, more often than not one of the busiest days of the week, and everything had gone uncommonly well -- not a discontented client or a misplaced spool of ribbon to be spoken of.
She was expecting no deliveries today and so was rather startled when the little parcel -- a parcel too small to contain goods for the shop -- was delivered at midday.
And it was then that the day took the most astonishing turn of all, for she discovered within a bouquet of the most exquisite violets -- and not so much as a hint as to the identity of the sender.
Had someone been observing Miss Galindo unawares, he or she would have laughed to see her very nearly turning the gift box upside down to determine whether a card was hidden there. But there was no card; the gift was quite anonymous, and it was, she suddenly remembered, St. Valentine's Day.
No one had ever made her a present of flowers on St. Valentine's Day. She touched the tender, richly colored petals. So beautiful, so delicate. If she had taken out her paints, crayons, and pencils then and there and tried to replicate them, she should not have succeeded.
And had she taken pen and ink and attempted to express how she felt at this moment -- well, in that task she surely ought to have failed as well.
She could think of only two people who had recently given her presents: Mr. Carter and Captain Brown. But Mr. Carter surely had no use for ruses, games, and anonymity; if he had sent her a gift, he would have at the very least included a modest card. With the compliments of Edward Carter. That was his way.
And as for Captain Brown, he too was a frank sort of fellow, and would have made his intentions plain. And yet there had been one or two occasions on which she had cause to wonder whether he was expressing subtle interest. But surely his invitation to the party, the book he'd sent, the offer of an escort home were all innocent gestures, indications of friendship and neighborliness, but not of a preference for her company. No, it was not Captain Brown who had sent the flowers.
Anthony Beckett? It was not impossible that he should make a gesture of gratitude or apology, though she saw no need for either. Besides, he'd know better than to do such a thing at St. Valentine's Day, especially after all the gossip of the previous year.
Harry? Miss Galindo smiled at the very notion. Harry was too young and too poor to send presents, though not, as it happened, too young to defer paying compliments to ladies! God help Mr. Carter, who would have his hands full schooling the boy in the ways of an honest gentleman.
Well, then. Could the flowers have been a mistake, a misdirected delivery, or even a prank? She thought of Dr. Marshland at Mrs. Rhys's shop, and of the account Mrs. Morgan had provided of his mischief at the previous St. Valentine's Day. Indeed, Miss Galindo suspected the ladies of Cranford would be recounting the tale of Dr. Marshland's anonymous Valentine cards for a decade to come.
But much had changed since then, and anyone with eyes would have marked well Dr. Marshland's preference for a particular young woman. Miss Galindo smiled to herself. At the very least, he would not risk getting into any scrapes this St. Valentine's Day, not when the game he was playing was a good deal more serious than whist or forfeits.
She sat down in one of the chairs in her shop and held the violets in her lap. There was always a meaning to flowers, it was said, whether they were depicted in a painting or sent to a lady's care. She could not remember the symbolism of the violet, not at the moment, but touching the flowers, holding them in her hands, gave such delicate pleasure -- very like a caress.
Miss Galindo had not yet had time to place her flowers in a vase when the door to the shop opened and Miss Matty, Mrs. Gordon, and Miss Smith stepped inside. They were all smiles and bobbed curtsies.
"You must forgive me, Miss Galindo. I have left my account unpaid too long," began Miss Matty. "But that is not the only reason for our visit today."
"No, Miss Matty? And what else might I do for you?"
"Nothing else for me, thank you, Miss Galindo," said Miss Matty. "It's Mrs. Gordon who is our primary concern."
Jessie smiled. "I am at last going to purchase a new bonnet, and could think of no one else whose taste and skill I might better rely upon than your good self."
"And I am here only to provide company for Miss Matty and Mrs. Gordon while they accomplish their errands," added Miss Smith. "I trust I will not be in the way."
"Never, Miss Smith, and I find that ladies always make wiser decisions for having consulted a friend before purchasing a new bonnet or gown," said Miss Galindo with a sly smile. "Where shall we begin?"
"Oh, with Mrs. Gordon, please," said Miss Matty. "Hers is the most complex request, and she has waited so long for this day."
As Jessie settled into the chair in front of the mirror, her eye fell upon Miss Galindo's gift.
"Oh! What charming flowers. Did they just arrive?"
"Yes, Mrs. Gordon, almost this moment," said Miss Galindo, bringing forward an assortment of designs to show Jessie.
"And they are violets. How very lovely!" exclaimed Miss Matty.
"Violets on St. Valentine's Day," added Miss Smith, approvingly.
"I own I do not know the meaning of the violet. We shall have to consult The Language of Flowers when we return home," said Miss Matty.
"Indeed you must," said Mrs. Gordon happily, remembering her own courtship, and the flowers the major had sent her. Anemones. Love ever steadfast.
"Though we do not know, of course, whether the gentleman is even aware of the symbolism of flowers!" added Mary Smith. "But the very act of sending them was, in itself, a message."
"Do you mean a declaration of feelings, Miss Smith, or of intent?" asked Miss Galindo, suddenly forgetting bonnets and fashion and all else.
"Both, most likely," said Mary warmly.
"I confess I know neither his intent nor his name. The flowers arrived without a card," said Miss Galindo, with an effort.
"An anonymous present! How intriguing," sighed Miss Matty. "Well, now you must certainly learn the symbolism of the violet!"
"Oh, I think Miss Galindo need not trouble herself with that," said Mary.
Miss Galindo looked a bit anxious, for all that she still managed a smile. "And why do you say that, Miss Smith?"
"Make no mistake about it, Miss Galindo," said Mary. "You have an admirer, and surely he is a very good man."
"Is it true what they say, do you think?" said Miss Matty after she and Mary had said goodbye to Mrs. Gordon at her doorstep. "That Miss Galindo has a – "
She had been about to say "lover" but, almost feeling the weight of Deborah's disapproval, could not utter the word.
"That Miss Galindo has -- ?" prompted Mary delicately.
"Why, that a gentleman has been paying his attentions to Miss Galindo," finished Miss Matty primly.
"Oh, Miss Matty, I do not give credence to the gossip, especially when we know so much of Miss Galindo's demeanor and character," said Mary. "I very much suspect the tales are more the product of fertile imaginations than of events."
And yet Mary thought again of what she and Jack had noted well at the Twelfth Night party: the unspoken intimacy between Mr. Carter and Miss Galindo – decorous, perfectly proper, but still plain to her eyes, and to Jack's. Indeed, Jack had, if anything, been more persuaded of an attachment than had she, and had made impertinent jokes about the mistletoe decorating the halls at Hanbury and what use Mr. Carter might make of it.
Remembering all that, Mary now said, "But I do think it is entirely possible that a gentleman would choose this day to reveal his intentions to Miss Galindo, or perhaps send her some symbol of his regard, and surely only the most respectable sort of man would attempt that. Indeed, I think we should view that as a most agreeable prospect. Would you not then be pleased for Miss Galindo? That is, do you not believe she deserves to win the heart of a good man?"
"Of course I do, and I would wish as much for any lady who had secured my esteem," said Miss Matty, with a meaningful look at her young companion.
Mary's smile betrayed nothing. "But not all worthy women make a good match." And Miss Matty could not divine whether that pronouncement was meant to refer to her plight or Mary's own.
Martha met them at the door with an endearing -- and these days quite uncharacteristic -- smile. "Oh, Miss Smith, there's a gift box come for you!" Martha couldn't have been more excited if it had been her own present.
Miss Matty said nothing, though her interest was, if anything, more pronounced than Martha's. Symbols of regard indeed! And it is St. Valentine's Day.
Both women watched as Mary opened her gift, though it was Miss Matty who broke the silence. "What a lovely bouquet of tulips! Such colors!"
"Oh, they're beautiful, Miss Smith!"
Mary was studying the the card that had been enclosed with her flowers. With the compliments of Dr. John Marshland -- an assortment of painfully correct words that were as far as she could imagine from the blotchy, merry, decidedly irreverent letters he regularly sent her way.
Miss Matty's soft voice broke through her thoughts. "Mary, dear, I'd imagine there is no need for you to tell either Martha or myself who sent the flowers."
Mary looked up. "No, there is not, Miss Matty, for you both have surely guessed that it was Dr. Marshland."
"Oh, Miss Smith, he must think the world of you." said Martha. She could not understand why Mary showed no sign of delight. Truly she was cold-hearted girl if she couldn't see the worth of that Dr. Marshland. He was a clever one, and handsome too, and made them all laugh with his stories and jokes.
I'll wager she's not so much as given him a kiss, let alone more, thought Martha. It wouldn't do to try a fellow's patience so, not when men remained such a dear commodity in Cranford.
They'd been at sixes and sevens all day, thought Mrs. Rhys -- most unusual for Cranford, for all that it was St. Valentine's Day. She didn't know what they would do once the railroad was completed, for then there would be people coming and going at all hours of the day -- wonderful for her custom, exhausting for herself and her son. They'd require an assistant, they would, if things became so busy.
And they'd barely managed today. Why, they'd --
Oh, dear. There was something lying on the floor of the shop -- a letter, perhaps, or a Valentine, or even a card to accompany one of their dear little nosegays.
"What's this, Hugh?" said Mrs. Rhys, waving the envelope before her 17-year-old son's eyes. She paused to read the direction. "'Miss Laurentia Galindo' – Hugh, has this lain here on the floor the entire day?" She was mortified. Clearly the confusion had been a good deal worse than she'd thought.
"Do you want me to take it over tomorrow, Mama?" said Hugh.
"Tomorrow?! What sort of a shop do you think this is? We're going this very evening."
"We?"
"Yes. Get your coat. But first wash those hands!"
The Band of Bachelors, Ferguson called them, these three physicians who met together that evening to share a drink and some conversation -- McDevitt, Ferguson, and Marshland, friends since their days at Guy's, all reunited in Manchester tonight, with not so much as a wife among them, and as McDevitt observed, a man must put his freedom to good use.
Ferguson, passing through on his way back to Edinburgh, had brought the spirits this time. It was evident from the start, though, that the bottle contained precisely the wrong prescription for young Marshland, who was not himself tonight and was indeed no better for taking anything stronger than port. Melancholy never suited Jack, and the drink only made it worse.
And the talk, thought Ferguson, had been of no help either.
"What can you tell us of your young lady, Jack? That lass in the village?" Ferguson said.
"The one with the eyes," McDevitt added, using his fingers to form an imaginary pair of spectacles.
"She's not my young lady," Marshland said in uncharacteristically clipped tones.
"She's a canny one, then, if she'll have none of you," said Ferguson, and he shared a guffaw with McDevitt.
"Not your young lady? I'm sorry to hear that," said McDevitt, "especially after the path your poor horse has worn between here and her doorstep." He emptied his glass. "Not your young lady?" he said. "Jack, what part of that phrase is untrue? Could it be she's not a lady?"
"Or she's no young?" Ferguson put in helpfully.
"Or perhaps – now perhaps, mind you – she's not yours at all, Jack." And McDevitt gave a hoarse chuckle as he reached for the bottle again.
Jack got to his feet suddenly, knocking his chair backwards.
Ferguson didn't much care for the look on Marshland's face. "Now, Jack," he said softly. "You've had enough. Sit down again." He turned to McDevitt and mouthed no more, and McDevitt couldn't decide if he meant the drink or the talk.
But Jack wouldn't sit down, and he seemed steady enough on his feet. "You are right. I've had enough," he said evenly. "And I'd best be going."
McDevitt couldn't leave it alone. He tugged at Marshland's sleeve. "Jack, you know I was just – "
"Oh, you were just, Dr. McDevitt, in your assessment," said Marshland quietly. "And most accurate."
That didn't sound like Jack, and Ferguson was really starting to worry. "Jack, you must -- "
"Spare me your prescriptions, Ferguson," said Marshland quietly. At last he smiled to himself, if a bit sadly. "And perhaps I'll not be needing a cure."
"Jack, sit down," said McDevitt. "We can -- "
"I'd best be going," said Jack again, as though no one had said anything. "Good night, and joy be with you all. I'll not sing it this time," he added, and he was out of the room before they could make another attempt at changing his mind.
He'd gotten all of it wrong, every step of the way, from his words to Mary on Saturday to the formal way he'd sent her flowers. They understood each other, or so he'd thought, and their every conversation, every letter had been marked with warmth and with spirit, never cold, bloodless formality. As of last Saturday, though, they'd both said all the wrong things to each other, and he'd been sent packing without so much as a touch or a kiss. Truly that hurt the most, though he didn't like to own it. Then again, Miss Matty had walked in on them, and it wasn't as though Mary could have done more than shake his hand. But she might have at least smiled.
Mary was a sharp girl, though. She'd understand him, see what he'd really intended, once he had a chance to explain.
And he wasn't going to leave it to letters this time, or some silly posy from the village shop. He'd have to see her.
It was a bit late to be starting out, but there was time enough, and hadn't he made the journey so many times now that he could have done it in his sleep? Even his horse, as McDevitt had observed, had worn a path to Cranford. He'd go to Mary tonight, make her see reason, and return to Manchester in the morning.
By the time he was on his way the thought occurred to him he'd not brought money enough to stay at the George. But he couldn't turn back now, and besides, Frank and Sophy would surely welcome him in if he knocked on their door. Sophy was too soft-hearted to do otherwise, and as for Frank, well, Jack always had the option to use blackmail, given their shared history at Guy's. No, the Harrisons would not turn him away.
But first he must call upon Mary. He'd make arrangements as to the rest later.
He knew Mary often sat reading with Miss Matty and Mr. Jenkyns of an evening, and he could easily envision the scene – coziness and quiet and candlelight, with Mary in her spectacles, her face a delight of soft curves and shadows and bright, lovely eyes. He imagined her looking up from her book as he came in the room and smiling this time, smiling to welcome him back.
The door opened to reveal Jem Hearne, wearing breeches pulled hastily on with his nightshirt. He held a poker in his right hand, and Martha, right behind him, was clutching his shoulder with one hand and the coal shovel with other – as though that wooden implement Captain Brown had made might prove a reliable weapon!
"Dr. Marshland! Did somebody call you? I hadn't thought there was illness in the household tonight." And he looked round to Martha as though she somehow might have the answer.
Peter Jenkyns came down the stairs, having hastily pulled on shirt and trousers. "I heard knocking," he said, and fell silent when he saw Jack standing in the doorway.
Within another moment Mary Smith appeared at the top of the stairs. She stood with her hair hanging loose and a shawl wrapped about her shoulders – a feeble attempt at modesty, given that she was clad in her nightdress. A single glance and Jack had the makings of a month's worth of dreams.
Peter Jenkyns cleared his throat. "Dr. Marshland, perhaps you do not realize that the clock has already gone eleven."
Oh, sweet Jesus, what had he done? They'd think him a madman for coming round at this hour. His head was starting to ache. Damn Ferguson for bringing that bottle tonight. Damn McDevitt for –
Miss Matty emerged from her bedroom, clutching a wrapper about herself. "Whatever is wrong?" She looked down the stairs and took in the scene – Martha, Jem, her brother, and an uncharacteristically sheepish Dr. Marshland.
Jack attempted a bow, though it made him dizzy. "I beg your pardon, Miss Matty. I found myself in Cranford most unexpectedly this evening, and thought to call upon Miss Smith."
"It is indeed most unexpected, Dr. Marshland. Evidently we keep different hours in Cranford than one does in Manchester."
"I am truly sorry, Miss Matty. I mean to go to Dr. Harrison's --"
"Oh, indeed you shall not. Dr. and Mrs. Harrison will have already retired for the evening." She turned to her brother. "Peter, surely we can provide some accommodation for Dr. Marshland."
"My thought exactly, Matilda."
Matty's head whipped round. "And Mary, you really ought to return to your room."
"I thought perhaps we had an intruder, Miss Matty," said Mary. She turned her attention downstairs. "Jem, I think that we ought to procure you a pistol for next time. A poker is a most inadequate means of defense."
"Mary!" said Matty, shocked. She turned to the others and said, "We have all become unnecessarily agitated, but it is far too late for conversation. I propose that everyone retire until the morrow."
Peter Jenkyns clamped a hand on Dr. Marshland's shoulder – very like a constable, thought Jem – and said, "Right. I'll show you where you'll spend the night." And with that everyone dispersed – Matty to her little room, Mary to hers, and Jem and Martha to their quarters on the other side of the house.
As for Jack Marshland, he didn't much care where or whether he slept that night. He didn't care if he ever slept again, not when he was this miserable.
The clock had gone eleven -- long past time to retire. She'd put on her nightdress and braided her hair, and yet left the candle burning again on the nightstand while she sat awake. She must unfold and read the note again, to persuade herself that she had received it, that she even understood it.
Tuesday, February 13th
My dear Miss Galindo,
I write this in haste, and with borrowed time and even borrowed pen! And yet do not take offense that I allow, as you might say, the written word to suffice, when we might have spent a few more precious moments in private conversation. Indeed I hope this letter might lay the groundwork for another such talk, this time lengthier and uninterrupted, when I return home.
This morning I mentioned to you that Harry had confided to me the content of your exchange on Saturday. Pray do not distress yourself, Miss Galindo; I bring up the matter not out of a desire to reproach but to offer comfort. Harry was pierced to the heart when he realized he'd made you weep, and I too was grieved. You have shed tears enough, I assure you, and I write that not only on Harry's behalf but on my own.
To hear that you had wept was to stumble upon a great secret, or so it seemed. You see, Miss Galindo, you are not alone in occasionally discovering things thought to be well-concealed! But as you have observed, my secrets are safe enough in your keeping, and in return I give you my word that you may trust me with your own. Indeed I would be honored if you would consent to rely upon me, to confide in me.
Does that seem too much to expect, given the course of our acquaintance? Indeed I hope not, for you have been so many things to me. You called yourself a clerk, I called you a milliner -- as though that were a bad thing; you really ought to have been more severe with me -- but there is so much more that you are: a confidante, a friend, a teacher, an artist, and even the lady to whom Harry Gregson sometimes pays compliments (We really must take greater care with that boy's education).
And yet all of that is inadequate to convey what you are to me. Do you understand my meaning? Would allow me more time in your company, that you may divulge your own thoughts in the wake of this message? I very much hope your answer will be yes, and that you will accept, with a smile and never a tear, this letter, and the symbol of my regard that accompanies it.
Very sincerely yours,
Edward Carter
Tonight any misunderstandings, frustrations, awkwardness did not seem to matter. She felt a strange generosity, a willingness to embrace the whole of her acquaintance as confederates in this blossoming friendship with Mr. Carter. God bless dear, stubborn Lady Ludlow for my-dearing her all the way into his office that time. "I have brought you a helpmeet." Quite! And God bless Harry for serving as the bridge between them, and simply for being Harry. For that matter, bless Dr. Marshland for appearing out of nowhere to provoke all these recent conversations. Yes, God bless Dr. Marshland, wherever he was tonight.
Had Mr. Carter arrived home yet? Yes, surely he was home, surely he was asleep at this moment, while she sat up re-reading his words. Perhaps she'd dream of him again, only a happier dream now -- that is, assuming she even slept tonight!
And truth to tell, she wasn't much concerned when or if she slept this night. She didn't much care if she ever slept again, not when she was this happy.
Traveling was always a lonely business – passing all those cozy houses filled with light and with families. He hated the feeling that as long as he was on a journey, there was nowhere he truly belonged. He was always a guest, a stranger.
He had arrived home again now, though, arrived at the place he loved, even if there was no one to greet him. But of course it was late -- the clock had gone eleven, and decent folk were abed. He should take his rest as well, if only he could stop thinking long enough to close his eyes.
And if he closed his eyes, he would envision her standing before him as she had done that first time he'd brought her flowers. At one moment there'd been a mischievous look in her eyes as she tactfully got him to hand the blooms over to her, employing the excuse that their moist stems would stain his shirt cuffs. But when he'd extended his hand and given her the bouquet, she'd seemed at once very shy, standing there with lips parted and eyes fixed on the flowers, not on his face.
Had she worn the same expression when his little gift arrived today? He'd never know, but he would see her as soon as possible and, he hoped, have the leisure to study her expressions then.
But surely she was lying asleep at this hour, and when he closed his eyes he dared to envision that scene as well -- Laurentia Galindo, blissfully given over to dreams. He imagined her pale face in repose, her hair tumbling over the pillow.
Would the violets be in a vase in her shop, or or perhaps in her sitting room? Or were they standing watch there in her bedroom while she slept, while she dreamed?
To be continued...